DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
He’d wanted normalcy, just a small figment, a fraction, of things foolish and ridiculous, how they’d once drawn moments together instead of apart. Perhaps it’d been inane, to try and strive for woven threads made before trauma, before more jagged lines and ivory scars, chasing down seconds and snippets when they hadn’t been broken, frayed, and barbed. Maybe it was too late, and this was what they were now. He watched as she pressed her way into the wall, where he believed she would’ve flown, would’ve run, would’ve fled any silly pulse of mayhem, not stopped by stone (never had been before). Something choked in his chest, the quiet and slow strangulation of his soul, and he rendered the magic gone. It dissipated back into the earth, sinking along sand, dunes, rocks erased or replaced, and if only the world was so easily molded back together.
The coil of apprehension knotted its way through his ribcage (have I lost you too? seeping into his bones, and he couldn’t understand it, couldn’t control it, when she stood right before him). He nearly asked if she was all right, if she was okay, but knew better. Of course she wasn’t. Of course none of them were. They were ethers and vestiges presently, wisps of smoke and fumes, trying not to fall into ash and dust. His other hand reached, if she was willing, to cup her cheek, to lend whatever strength he had left.
Then she turned into him, and he softened an exhale, let it slowly flicker and unfurl through his lungs. Suns and stars, moons and abysses shifting, toying, and he didn’t know where to look, save for her eyes and the chances of something, anything, in the dulcet fringes of her smile. The question brought him out of the drowning fabrications with a ridiculous snort, as if the inquiry even needed to be asked. “Yes.” They’d never been ones for tradition anyway.
The coil of apprehension knotted its way through his ribcage (have I lost you too? seeping into his bones, and he couldn’t understand it, couldn’t control it, when she stood right before him). He nearly asked if she was all right, if she was okay, but knew better. Of course she wasn’t. Of course none of them were. They were ethers and vestiges presently, wisps of smoke and fumes, trying not to fall into ash and dust. His other hand reached, if she was willing, to cup her cheek, to lend whatever strength he had left.
Then she turned into him, and he softened an exhale, let it slowly flicker and unfurl through his lungs. Suns and stars, moons and abysses shifting, toying, and he didn’t know where to look, save for her eyes and the chances of something, anything, in the dulcet fringes of her smile. The question brought him out of the drowning fabrications with a ridiculous snort, as if the inquiry even needed to be asked. “Yes.” They’d never been ones for tradition anyway.
I belong to you
the way the moon belongs to the stars
the way the moon belongs to the stars
